


Sound of Silence

by cloud_wolfbane



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Parentlock, References to Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-27
Updated: 2013-08-21
Packaged: 2017-12-16 09:23:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 18,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/860533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cloud_wolfbane/pseuds/cloud_wolfbane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John made some bad decisions after Sherlock jumped from St. Barts, but now the detective is back. Six years since the Fall and the boys are investigating a string of murdered teenaged boys, and what appears to be an orphan drug ring. In the process, John and Sherlock find something they didn't even know was missing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Something to Trade

**Author's Note:**

> If you read my last story then you know Hal. This was the story I was originally going to tell, but changed my mind last minute. This is much darker, but I hope you enjoy it all the same.

Hal didn’t remember much before he came to the house. Not that anyone remembered much before their third birthday. His first real memory was of the woman he would come to think of as Not-mother. She was a foster mother chosen to take care of him because Hal either didn’t have any parents or they did not want him; he didn’t know which.

He never could remember her real name, but he would always remember her face. She was very pale with brown eyes that were usually shot through with little red veins. Her hair was lank, ratty, and an odd combination of brown-red-grey. She had a fierce scowl and a strong punch, despite her twig-like arms.

Hal hated her.

By the time he was four, Hal’s life was two irrefutable facts. The first was that when Not-mother had twitchy fingers, red eyes, and wide pupils he was to stay as far away from her as possible. The second was that to get anything, he had to have something to trade.

The house had four other boys in it from ages twelve to sixteen. Every morning, Not-mother handed them little baggies filled with white powder or pills and every evening the boys came back with rolls of money or returned their baggies. If they handed over money, Not-mother unlocked the fridge and gave them food. If they returned the baggies then she would yell and hit them. She would not open the fridge.

Hal had neither baggies nor money and that made getting food very hard. Sometimes he could scrounge leftovers from the bin or on good days the boys would share a bit with him. The easiest way to get food, however, was to do the boys’ chores for them. Cleaning for food was hard, but it always got him more than digging through the bin.

Four months into being in the house Hal made a terrible mistake. In a string of bad days with returned baggies, the fridge stayed locked and no one had anything to trade. After three days when Hal felt his vision swim and his stomach cramped so hard that he couldn’t sleep, he went to Not-mother and asked as politely as he could for a bite to eat.

He woke up a day later in the wardrobe. Ethan, a thirteen year old who said he once had a little brother, had shoved him inside after Not-mother calmed down. Hal hurt all over and his skin was a patchwork of bruise colours. Ethan told him he probably hadn’t broken anything and he hadn’t died in his sleep so he should be okay, but it was probably best to stay in the wardrobe for a while.

Hal stayed for three days, eating small bites from Ethan’s suppers and trying to teach himself to read. The floor was packed with books from the government for the foster kids. Hal loved them, and spent hours admiring the covers and tracing his fingers over the words.

When he finally left the safety of his wardrobe, he had learned to read, but would no longer utter a sound. He had made a trade: no sound in exchange for no more punches.

Strangely, it was Peter, age sixteen, who figured it out. He asked Hal a question three times before scowling down at the boy. “You go mute?” he asked.

Hal thought about the little button on the telly remote that said Mute and how it made the noise stop. He nodded.

Peter scoffed, “All right then.”

And that was that.

The easiest way to trade for food from the boys was to do their chores. Each one had to sweep or hover or dust. Hal did each chore every morning and received a bit of supper from each boy.

Then he made another mistake. Hal was sweeping the kitchen when Not-mother walked in.

She stared at him, the too-tall broom in his hands and the dustpan sitting a few feet away. Hal watched her closely, looking for any signs of anger, but she just narrowed her eyes and went into her room. He quickly swept up the dust and disappeared into his closet.

That night at the bag/food trade she announced that all cleaning duties were transferred to Hal. The boys gave him a bit of food as usual, but he knew that wouldn’t last long, he needed something new to trade.

When it came, it was an accident. He was finishing dusting the hallway when Ethan let out a curse.

Hal stuck his head in the room carefully, unsure if Ethan was hurt or angry. Ethan was sprawled out on his bed with a giant book and a pad of paper.

Ethan caught sight of him at the door as he tried to duck out. “Come ‘ere Hal, it’s okay.”

Hal wandered over slowly, ready to bolt if Ethan decided to throw the book. It looked heavy.

“This is my Bio homework. I’ve got one question left, and I can’t find it.”

Hal pulled himself on the bed with a shimmy and took a closer look at the book. The pages were glossy and filled with strange pictures. Each page had rows and rows of little black words. Almost as many words as the Oxford Dictionary he liked to use to prop up his pillow.

He glanced at Ethan to see if he could touch the book. The other boys were very protective of the things they considered ‘theirs’.

Ethan waved a hand. “Go ahead, knock yourself out. I gotta try and sell some product anyways.” He left the room with a huff, tugging his pack over one shoulder.

Hal glanced at the small digital clock on the dresser and figured he had some time. First he looked at the missing question on the pad. It read, “Who was the father of genetics?”

He knew all of the words but ‘genetics’ so he grabbed the big book under his pillow and looked it up.

It took a while to find the part of the book about ‘genetics’. He ended up having to use the end of the book that listed important words and page numbers. When he found the right page, he had to look up more and more words. As the story unfolded about pea plants and different colours and something called a Punnett Square, Hal was entranced. He was so lost in the book that it took the door slamming, to make him look at the clock again, hours had passed.

He scribbled ‘Gregor Mendel’ under the empty question, and fled to his wardrobe.

Ethan pulled open the door a moment later. “Hey,” he said as he kneeled down at eye level, “you forgot this.” Ethan handed over the dictionary, and Hal took it with care. “I can’t believe you found that, I saw the page you were on. Thanks. Here, this was leftover from school.”

Hal flinched as he was tossed a green ball, but it wasn’t a ball. The shape wasn’t quite right and it smelled sort of sweet-sour.

“It’s an apple ding-bat. Just eat it,” Ethan huffed, closing the door as he left.

Hal stared at it a bit longer, pushing at the soft spot on one side before taking a small bite. The skin crunched as he bit it and the flesh was white inside. The flavour… The flavour was like nothing he had ever had. Somewhat sweet, but nothing like the juice he sometimes had, and somewhat sour, but nothing like that horrible candy Peter had tricked him into eating one time.

He relished eating the so-called ‘apple’ and ate every piece of it, even the centre that had tiny seeds and tasted a little odd.

The next day, after he had finished cleaning, Peter showed up at his door. “Hey, Freaky,” he greeted.

Hal looked up at him. Ethan was the only one that ever used his real name.

“Look, I don’ believe you helped Ethan with his Bio, but I’ll give you a chance.” He handed over a thick book, a pad of paper, and a black rectangle that Hal knew helped with maths. “The page number ‘n problems are on the paper. Do ‘em and git a B and I’ll give you my whole meal tomorrow. I gotta pass this class or I’ll never git outta this shite hole.”

Hal nodded. A whole meal, all to himself? He’d figure this out if it took him all night.

It did, in fact, take him all night.

The problems made no sense at all. The small book of maths he had with his reading books covered adding and subtracting. Peter’s maths had letters.

In the end, he went to the first page in the book and began to read. The words were easier to read than in the bio book, but some of them were so strange he had to keep flipping to the back of the book to look them up.

It took hours to figure out that the letters were numbers he was looking for and even longer to understand ‘negatives’.

When everything clicked into place, it was like the first bite of the apple. It was amazing. He wrote down all the problems and filled pages finding the letters. It was like a puzzle.

By the time Peter pulled the door open, Hal was seeing numbers with his eyes closed.

“You are freaky,” Peter mumbled as he flipped through the pages and pages of numbers. “Guess we’ll see if this makes sense.” He shoved the papers into his bag.

Hal felt a brief spark of anger as he watched Peter crumple his hard work, but pushed it down.

He spent the day distracted, half-heartedly hoovering the living room. He hated hoovering; the thing was too big and always ended up hitting him in the head when he couldn’t get it to click into place.

By the time he wandered back into his room, he could feel a bruise forming on his forehead. He spent the rest of the day writing in his notebook, rambling between things he had learned in the Bio book and some from the maths book.

Peter came home late, probably having trouble selling. Hal watched from a distance, knowing if he had gotten his numbers wrong then Peter would be mad. When he saw Hal, though, he grinned and pulled out the crumpled papers. B+ was written in red ink on the top. “You’re like something out of the telly,” Peter joked. When he noticed Hal staring at the papers, he handed them over. “Christ, you are a freak. Want to know what you got wrong, eh?”

Hal put the papers next to his pillow while he waited for Peter to trade for dinner. Like most nights, it was one of those box meals that went in the microwave.

Hal tucked in with relish. The potatoes were still a little slushy with ice, the brownie was boiling hot, and the mac-n-cheese cold in some places and hot in others. It was fantastic. He licked the part with the brownie clean, even if it did make his tongue sting.

Even though it made his stomach hurt with being so full, Hal ate every bite.

Trading became easier after that. The other boys, John and Jamie, started giving him their homework, and every night Hal spent hours flipping from one book to the next. He started burning through the batteries on his torch at an amazing rate.

Each morsel of information was interesting and he wrote everything he could in his notebook because he couldn’t keep the schoolbooks. He started trading for notebooks and pencils, when he thought he could risk going without food for a day or two.

The wardrobe started getting crowded with books, but he refused to throw them away or move them somewhere that Not-mother could see.

When his fifth birthday rolled around, he was beyond excited. He was born close to the start of the school year, so he didn’t have to wait long for school to start. He couldn’t believe he would soon get his own books and pencils and things. That he could learn even more! He didn’t even care that summer meant less to trade, which meant less food.

When the start of the school year came, however, Not-mother did not give him one of the packs of supplies she always gave the older boys. She did not sign him up for school, and when the other boys went back for their first day, Hal did not go with them.

He had never wanted to say something so much in his life. That night, when the boys traded for dinner and Not-mother seemed pleased at her collection, he wanted to ask. He wanted to step in front of her and beg to go to school. That he would take the baggies of white powder and pills and trade twice as much as the boys. That he would scrub the house from top to bottom. 

But he did not ask her these things.

That night he curled up in his cramped wardrobe and listened to the sounds of his stomach growling and tried to sleep.

A month later, everything changed.

A month later, Jamie did not come home one night, or the next, or the next.

A month later, a dark haired man in a long coat, pulled him out of the wardrobe and took him away.

A month later, everything changed.


	2. The Man in the Long Coat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hal has a run in with three, very strange men.

Around 4ish, Hal always retreated to his wardrobe, so no one saw him when they first got home. Sometimes he spent it reading or writing. Today he pulled out old notes from all the boys and continued to practice their letters. He had filled an entire notebook with “the quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog” written in four different ways.

He was practicing with Peter’s when he heard knocking at the front door. That wasn’t unusual, Not-mother had visitors all the time to bring more baggies and trade others. He wondered if it was Jamie coming back, but he was pretty sure the other boy had run away.

He did not hear anyone answer the door, however. Instead, he heard breaking glass and yelling. The knocking sounded louder, and then a crack of splintering wood. He listened closely, curious, but did not dare look. It was never a good idea to come out when things were being broken.

There were shouts. Someone yelled, “POLICE!”

There was more noise, more things breaking, and then silence.

Hal listened closely, feeling his heart pound against his chest.

The silence stretched and stretched before his door opened. A dark shape blocked the entire way.

Hal scrambled back, but the dark shape was quick. He was pulled up by pale hands; and Hal panicked. He wanted to kick out and scream. Instead he shook.

The dark shape turned out to be a man with dark hair and a long dark coat. He talked quietly and firmly, explaining that he did not mean harm. Then he tucked Hal against his side and held him close.

It was so strange, Hal stopped shaking. He had never been picked up before and never held in a way that did not bring pain and bruises. Carefully, watching the man for any sign of anger, he placed his hands by his collar to steady himself.

The man was definitely older than the boys, but he didn’t look like the mean men that Not-mother traded baggies with. His skin was very pale and not covered in strange drawings. His hair was dark and curly and his eyes looked like a combo of some of the crayon stubs he had hidden in the wardrobe; something like storm water grey.  
“I think you’re being deduced, Sherlock,” another man said.

Hal looked over the dark man’s shoulder to see two more. One seemed sort of short with blonde hair and dressed in a really ugly jumper, but he looked nice like Ethan was nice.

The other man was a bit taller, but shorter than the dark man. He had the strangest looking hair, like silver, and was dressed in a fine suit like the men on the telly sometimes wore.

The silver-haired man walked over and leaned close. “Hey little man, we need to take you to the police station, okay? We are going to get you somewhere safe.”

Hal blinked at him. The word ‘safe’ was a silly one, but going somewhere else sounded nice. He could not remember leaving the house before.

When the dark man, Sherlock he guessed, started to walk away he pulled against his arms. He didn’t want to make him mad, but his books. All of his notes, would he never see them again?

Sherlock placed him down, and let him scramble into the wardrobe. He didn’t have a pack like the boys, so he could only carry the notebook he had all his Bio and maths notes in and the notebook where he was practicing his writing. He shoved his three pencils, the ones with the lead pieces not the silly yellow ones you had to sharpen, and two pens into his pocket. At the last second, he decided to grab his crayon nubs and shoved those into his other pocket.

The men were still waiting for him, though the blonde had kneeled by the door and was looking in.

“Christ, Sherlock, I think he slept in here.”

“Of course he did. There are only two bunk beds, enough for the four teenagers, but not for him. I imagine Sheryl was rather unenthused when the system gave her a young child. He has clearly seen very little sunlight, his size and bones suggest malnourishment, and he hasn’t made a sound.”

Hal listened to the men talk, and wondered who Sheryl was. They both sounded kind of mad, but he found himself wanting to be picked up again, which was just silly.

“Did you get what you wanted?” the blonde asked, still kneeling.

Not really, Hal thought, but he nodded anyways. There was no way he could carry his books and his dictionary, not when he didn’t know how far he would need to carry it.

“Do you mind if I pick you up?” the blonde asked again.

Hal looked at Sherlock then back at the blonde. He shrugged.

“I’m John, by the way,” the blonde introduced, as he picked him up.

John was warm and his ugly jumper was amazingly soft. Hal found himself leaning against his shoulder to get closer.

They tucked him into a police car that rolled and rumbled and made so much noise that Hal felt his stomach swish and his heart speed up. He spent the whole trip tucked between John and Sherlock and clutched his books as tight as he could.

When they got to the so-called ‘police station’ Sherlock carried him again. They went to a small room with one wall made of glass. There was a large desk and a computer like the office Not-mother never let them in.

When Sherlock put Hal down, he couldn’t help but look around. A small bookshelf by the desk had tons of books, none of them like the ones the boys had.

John disappeared for a bit, but Hal didn’t notice until he came back with a package of biscuits. “Here, I’m sure you’re hungry,” he offered.

Hal looked at the biscuits and worried over the trade. He was hungry, but his books were all he had. Was it worth it?

John was still standing there with his hand out, and Hal really didn’t want to make him mad.

With great regret, he handed over his writing practice book, hoping it would be enough.

John took it with his free hand, looking confused. “Thank you,” he murmured, staring at the book.

Hal figured that was confirmation and took the biscuits. The bright red package said ‘Jammie Dodgers’ and Hal was pretty sure he had seen them before, but had never tasted them. The package had six biscuits in it. He ate three slowly, enjoying the taste. The other three he wrapped back in the package and tucked into his pocket.

John was flipping through his book, his brow furrowed. “Sherlock, look at this.”

Sherlock walked over from where he was digging through paperwork on the desk. “Hmm,” he hummed as he took the book and started flipping through it. “Five different handwritings, writing the same sentence over and over again. The last pages looking more distinct, he was practicing the other boys’ handwriting.”

John looked from Hal to Sherlock. “Why?”

“I’m not sure,” Sherlock mumbled. He held the book out to Hal. “Can I see the other one?”

Hal really wanted to keep his Bio and math notes the most, but they had been good biscuits. He traded the books.

Sherlock flipped through the second book, his eyes growing wide. Without a word he handed it over to John.

John flipped through it quickly and then just stared at Hal, wide-eyed. “This is him?”

“It appears he was copying the handwriting to help the other boys with their homework, hmm.” Sherlock took the book back and then held it out to Hal.

Hal tried to hold out his other book, but Sherlock shook his head. “No, take it.”

Hal tried to hold out a pencil, but Sherlock shook his head again. The same thing happened when he held out the pens, then the crayons, then all of his writing things. He tried holding out the three left over biscuits and all the writing things, but the answer was the same. He was so angry he wanted to throw something at the man.

“No, take the book. It’s okay,” Sherlock held it out again.

Hal stared at him, shoved his things back in his pocket and walked to the corner of the room. He sat on the floor with the wall against his back and felt heat build between his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to do this story entirely from Hal's POV, but I think it might leave a lot out, any opinion?


	3. Foster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hal works out a trade.

Sherlock walked over to his corner and laid the book on the ground. “You don’t have to exchange for the biscuits,” he said, before moving to one of the chairs in front of the desk.

John sat in the chair beside him, and they both just seemed to forget he was there. Hal was fine with that.

The silver-haired man came in later and took the seat behind the desk. He glanced at Hal, looking like he wanted to ask a question, but stopped. “Apparently Sheryl Williams had an escape plan. We lost her in the raid, but they managed to grab one of the boys. I asked him what our little guy’s name was,” he pointed his thumb at Hal, “but he didn’t seem to know. Peter, the boy, says he is about five and has been at the house for over two years, living in that wardrobe.”

John cussed, clenching his fists. “What is wrong with this woman? These are children!”

“I imagine she was thinking how useful they were at selling drugs. The police are less likely to suspect young boys,” Sherlock remarked.

The silver man sighed. “We have a halfway house for Peter, but we need another foster family for this guy,” again he pointed at Hal.

Before anyone could offer a suggestion a woman walked in. She was dressed in a smart suit and had darker skin then the others. She has dark scowl on her face that reminded Hal of Not-mother. “Hey Freak, when are you going to clean up the mess you made of the conference room?”

Hal didn't know what a conference room was and he didn't remember making a mess, but it would not be the first time he had been blamed for something he didn’t do. He didn’t want to go with her, didn’t want to risk being taken away from the men that at least seemed nice. He knew, however, that stalling never worked.

He placed his book atop the one Sherlock had laid down, and hoped no one took them. Then he walked over to the woman and waited. Hopefully, she would show him what he needed to clean.

The woman blinked down at him, her face suddenly softening. “Hey there little guy, did you want something?”

Hal shook his head; if she was that mad, he wasn’t going to try and trade for the cleaning. He almost gasped in surprise, when large hands lifted him up. Once again he found himself tucked against Sherlock’s hip.

The man looked furious. “Do not use that word again Sally. Do you understand?" He sneered.

The woman, Sally, looked startled. “You’ve never minded before.”

“He thought you meant him, Christ, no wonder Peter didn’t know his name,” John gasped, standing from his seat.

Sally looked like she had been struck. “I didn’t mean…I didn’t mean him.”

“Perhaps you should go, Sally,” Silver man suggested.

The woman nodded and left.

Hal looked at Sherlock, curious about the exchange.

“She meant me, I made a mess,” Sherlock winked.

Hal could not decide to smile or scowl. She should not have called Sherlock Freak.

“Can you write your name? For me, please?” Sherlock asked, letting Hal down.

Hal had never tried writing to communicate. The boys usually knew what he wanted without too much trouble. He thought writing his own thoughts might be cheating, but Sherlock had asked and it was only three letters.

Hal grabbed his writing practice book and wrote his name.

Sherlock looked at the page. “Hal, your name is Hal?”

Hal nodded, and this time he did smile.

“You can’t send him to another foster family, Lestrade. Hal’s books show a genius level intelligence, but the results of his abuse, his trading and mutism, will make others assume he is stupid. If you send him to some house filled with children he will just slip through the cracks.” Sherlock seemed firm on this as he spoke to Silver man.

Hal had to agree. Foster was another word for Not-mother. He did not want to go back.

Lestrade rubbed the bridge of his nose. “What would you like me to do? He can’t stay here.”

Sherlock looked at John, they stared at each other like they could talk with thoughts alone.

“We’ll take him,” John spoke up.

Sherlock nodded, “I’ll call Mycroft.”

There was a bit of a fight after that, Hal ignored it and went over to his corner and went back to practicing his writing. He may not need the boys’ handwriting anymore, but it helped blank everything out.

He was on his tenth repetition when John came over. “Come on Hal, we’re going to wait in the break room for Sherlock’s brother.”

Hal followed him, wondering if it was brothers that made nice people. He wondered if John had a brother.

The break room was big and white with a table in the middle and two scruffy couches lined against the wall. There was a fridge on the other wall and Hal was surprised to find it wasn’t locked.

Sherlock opened the fridge like he owned it, and pulled out a brown bag.

“Here Hal, you might like this,” Sherlock offered the bag.

It had ‘Anderson’ written on the front, but Hal opened it, curious. Inside was a sandwich and a… He almost dropped the bag when he pulled out the apple. It still smelled like he remembered, crisp and sweet and woodsy. He looked at Sherlock with wide eye, trying to convey the please, please, please let me have it.

Sherlock nodded. “It's yours Hal, you can have it.”

Hal couldn’t help it, he glared.

Sherlock looked at him for a moment before holding up his pointer finger. “Hold on a moment.” He went out the door and was back in a flash with one of the heavy books from Lestrade’s office. He opened to a page and held it out to Hal. “I want you to eat the apple and the sandwich, then I want you to read this page and write a summary for me. Can you do that?”

Hal nodded, eager. He had done plenty of summaries for the boys.

Sherlock sat him at the table with his bag and books, patting his back.

Hal ate the apple first. Like the first time, he ate every part, even if John gave him a strange look.

The sandwich was a struggle. The bread was soft and it had ham and cheese with mustard, but his stomach felt so full he thought he might be sick.

John must have noticed because he came over and laid a warm hand on his back. “I know Sherlock asked you to eat both, but can you do me a favour? See, Sherlock hasn’t eaten in awhile, and I think he would like the rest if you want to share.”

Hal had never had food to share, but the idea that Sherlock was hungry was terrible. He shouldn’t be hungry. Hal walked over to where the man had sprawled himself over one of the couches and held out the sandwich.

Sherlock gave John a look, but took the sandwich with a smile. “Thank you, Hal,” he said before taking a big bite of the sandwich.

Hal grinned and moved back to his spot at the table. The book was still open to the page. It was sort of dull, like Jamie’s history book, but it was talking about New Scotland Yard and how the police force had changed over the years.

Hal started to write a timeline, but stopped. He walked over to Sherlock and handed over his practice book and a pen.

Sherlock looked at for a moment before chuckling. “Ahh, of course.” He scribbled in the book.

Hal took it back, looking over the new ‘the brown fox jumps over the lazy dog’. His handwriting was very sharp and a little messy. Hal frowned at it, wondering how hard it would be to copy.

It took him twenty repetitions to get the lines so he could write it without looking at the original. He went back to the summary then and finished it in pen in Sherlock’s writing.

Sherlock was standing by his shoulder when he finished. “That is impressive.”

John walked over to look and let out a low whistle. “How did he get that so fast? Your handwriting is terrible.”

Sherlock grinned. "He has hardly developed his own writing style yet, he’s so young that copying is second nature. I imagine he would make a master forger if he continued.”

“Honestly, brother if that was your goal I will have to shred all this tedious paperwork,” a voice drawled from the door.

Hal turned to face the man he assumed was Mycroft, Sherlock’s brother.

Sherlock scowled, “You could not send one of your lackeys to bring over the papers. The government must be floundering without you glued to your desk.”

“You can imagine my surprise when I got the request. I had to meet this boy in person. Also,” Mycroft looked away for moment, “some of the paperwork that turned up was surprising.”

Sherlock snatched the folder. He flipped through it rapidly, before stopping on the last page. “Do not joke with me, Mycroft.”

“I am hardly the sort, brother. That is the boy’s birth certificate. I retrieved the original from the hospital. It is as accurate as it can be without a blood test.”

John peered at the paper from Sherlock’s side and gasped. “It can’t be!”

Sherlock looked at John, eyes wide with something like fear. “His full name is Hamish J. Watson.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am going to try and keep this in Hal's POV. Wish me luck.


	4. Baker Street=Home?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hal goes to Baker Street.

“The mother is listed as one Mary Morstan. Do you recognize the name?” Mycroft asked, leaning on his umbrella.

John took a moment, his brow scrunched up, before nodding. “Yeah, I… it was a month after Sherlock’s,” he paused, licking his lips. “After the fall, I was having a hard time of it and decided to drown a bit of it at a pub. I met Mary there. We both just wanted to forget a bit. It was only that one night and we used, er, protection. “

Hal watched the three men and wondered what they were talking about. Who was Hamish?

Mycroft held up two tubes with swabs in them. “There is only one way to tell for certain.”

John scowled and grabbed the tubes. He took one swab and rubbed it along the inside of cheek. Then he walked over and kneeled in front of Hal. He held up the other tube, “Hal, do you mind if I swab the inside of your cheek? We need to check something.”

Hal opened his mouth, it did not seem like a big deal.

John swabbed his cheek and stuck the swab in the other tube before handing it off to Mycroft.

“Thank you, John. I will have this back as soon as possible.” Mycroft tucked the tubes into his jacket, before kneeling in front of Hal.

Hal eyed the brolly sitting across his lap. He had gotten smacked with one a few times before and was not sure where he stood with this man. Unlike Not-mother, Mycroft’s face was blank as stone. His brow was not furrowed, his eyes not narrowed; there was nothing in his face that gave him away. This made Hal uneasy.

“Hal, I would like to ask you a few questions. You can just nod yes or no. Is that acceptable?” Mycroft asked.

Hal nodded. Yes.

“Would you like to live with John and Sherlock?”

Hal nodded. Yes, absolutely.

“Is there anywhere else you would like to go?”

Shake. No.

“John and Sherlock are married, does that bother you?”

Hal had no idea what that meant, but shook his head. No.

Mycroft stood, tucking his brolly to his side like a cane. “Well, the paperwork is together, so you may bring him home tonight. I will email the results as soon as I receive them.” He tipped his head to Hal, “It was nice to meet you.” With that he was gone, leaving John and Sherlock looking a little pale.

Hal walked over to John and took his hand, giving it a light squeeze. Ethan had done that to him a few times when he could barely bring himself to leave the safety of the wardrobe. Hal hoped it gave John the same comfort.

John looked down at him with a watery sort of smile, before lifting him up. Hal found himself pressed tight to the warm jumper. It smelled like fresh laundry and comfort. Hal snuggled into his shoulder.

Things got a little hazy from there. John and Sherlock had words with Lestrade and gathered more papers, before they left the building. From there Hal had to endure another car ride, which made his full stomach clench. He spent the whole ride pressed against John’s side, but the man never told him not to.

His new…home, he guessed he could call it for now, was called Baker Street, 221B to be exact. Sherlock was very careful to explain this to him.

Just inside the door an older woman who was introduced as ‘Mrs Hudson,’ bombarded them. She was the opposite of Not-mother. Her smile was warm and inviting and she smelled like lavender and vanilla instead of the alcohol-sweat scent he was used to. Despite this, he found her hug to be overwhelming and ended up plastered to Sherlock’s leg.

She told him that it was all quite all right and wished them well.

Upstairs was a mess. Paper coated every available surface and the kitchen table resembled the school time science show he had always loved. They had two large bookshelves struggling under the weight of the books on them, and the dust seemed to be reaching critical mass. Hal could not decide if he loved it on sight or dreaded the thought of having to clean it all. Depending on how quickly they wanted it done, Hal thought he might be able to work out a trade for food for at least a week.

He paused in front of the fireplace, because up on the mantel was a human skull. It looked just like the pictures from Ethan’s Bio book and he was fascinated.

Sherlock came over and pulled it down. “Careful with it, he is very old,” he offered the skull over.

Hal took it as if glass. The bone was oddly smooth and bumpy beneath his fingers. He ran a finger over the jagged lines over the top of the skull, amazed.

When he handed it back to Sherlock, the man grinned at him like he had just done something great. John was rolling his eyes in the background.

“Would you like to see where you will sleep? We'll have to fix it up properly later, but it should do for now,” John said. 

Hal followed them up a small flight of stairs to a single bedroom. There was a bed and a dresser shoved up against one corner while the rest of the room seemed to be suffering an invasion of boxes.

John rubbed the back of his neck, looking embarrassed. “This used to be my room, two years ago, but Sherlock and I, er, stay together now so it turned into storage.”

Hal was amazed, looking at all the room. He pointed at the bed to make sure he wasn’t confused. There was a wardrobe door against the sidewall.

“This is all your bedroom, Hal. We will move some of these boxes out tonight, and the rest tomorrow. Do you like it?” John asked.

His voice seemed a little shaky, Hal wondered what was wrong. He had been acting a little strange since Mycroft had come by. He nodded his head and gave a smile, so John would know he liked it, very much.

Sherlock and John started to move the boxes downstairs after that. Hal helped where he could. Some of the boxes were very heavy, but Sherlock started pulling smaller ones to the side so he could carry them down.

Soon the room had a single pile in the corner of the room to be dealt with later. With all the boxes moved, Hal found a small bookshelf. It was mostly empty, but Sherlock put his two notebooks on it for him.

When John mentioned a bath, the three of them stared at each other, not sure what to do. Hal took a bath at least once a week, and he had taken his last one two days ago.

John looked nervous. “Your hair is a bit a mess Hal. I’m not even sure a bath will fix it.”

Hal tugged at his hair. It had gotten pretty long in the last couple of months and he could never keep it from knotting up, but it mostly kept it out of his eyes. He shrugged.

“I’ll do it,” Sherlock offered.

Sherlock took Hal to the bathroom downstairs. While the tub was filling up, he changed out of his nice button-up shirt and pants to a ratty t-shirt and pajama bottoms.

John gave Hal a large brown t-shirt to sleep in.

Sherlock helped lather his hair with a bottle of shampoo, Hal didn’t recognise it, but it smelled a lot like Sherlock’s scarf. It was nice at first, but as gentle as Sherlock tried to be, it hurt to have his hair tugged on. Hal ended up having to endure four bouts of conditioner and a change of water, before his hair fell around his shoulders. Clean and detangled his hair was all the way down his back.

“We are going to have to cut it, Hal. It’s too long and a lot of it is torn from being so tangled,” John suggested as he and Sherlock worked together to dry Hal off.

Hal shrugged, he could care less, and if it made them happy he didn’t mind.

John sat him in the kitchen with a few towels and trimmed his hair. “I used to do this for my mates in the Army. Though I usually used clippers,” John commented as he worked.

Hal listened to John go on about this and that. It was so strange to have someone just talk to him. Even Ethan tended to ignore him for the most part. He had said it was strange to try and talk to someone that wouldn’t answer back.

When John was done, Hal's hair was only a few inches long and slipped soft and smooth through his fingers. Hal gaped at the pile of blonde hair curled around the chair before he found himself hugging John’s legs. It was so strange to not have that weight on his head, and to be able to run his fingers through his own hair. It was…freeing

They put him to bed after that. It was getting late and had been dark outside for a few hours. Hal found himself yawning, as John helped him into bed.

Sherlock tucked the covers around him and Hal felt something in his chest warm that had nothing to do with the blankets.

Hal woke the next morning to the smell of bacon and wondered what he should do. Usually he would stay out of sight until the house cleared for the morning, but what if Sherlock and John wanted him up early?

He ended up making his way down stairs very carefully, making sure not to let the steps creak.

John was in the kitchen cooking, while Sherlock was leaned against the counter with a cup of tea. Both looked up at him in the stairway like they had heard him from a mile off.

“Take a seat,” Sherlock suggested, pulling one out for him. The main table still looked like a science experiment gone wrong, but there was a little table to the side that was clean.

Hal hopped into the chair and looked at Sherlock expectantly, wondering what to do.

John placed a plate of bacon and eggs in front of Sherlock and a plate of toast and honey in front of Hal.

Sherlock scowled at the plate like it had insulted him. He leaned in close and whispered to Hal. “Will you trade with me? I hate scrambled eggs.”

Hal pushed his toast over with a nod. He had never had eggs, but they smelled good.

Sherlock pushed the other plate over before biting into his toast with gusto. “Thank you,” he grinned around a bite.

Hal smiled back before biting into his new breakfast. The eggs were a strange texture, but were great when he crunched up his bacon with them. John sat with them with his own plate of eggs, but said nothing about the switch.

Sherlock finished his toast quickly and went over to the window to take up a strange wooden thing. He tucked it against his shoulder and in his other hand ran a stick-like thing over the top of it. A beautiful sound came from the two.

Hal completely forgot about his breakfast as he listened to Sherlock bring music forth with his strange instrument. At first he played something slow and sad, but, as if bored, he switched to something quick and frantic, running the stick over the strings in a blur.

“Amazing, huh?” John whispered, leaning close.

Hal shook his head, amazing wasn’t the right word. It was something more, something greater.

John just nodded, like he understood what Hal meant.

They sat there for an hour, listening to the music.

Instead of being mad at his laziness, however, John just patted his back and put their dishes away.

Hal watched, horrified. He needed to do something, help someway.

John told him it was all fine, leaving Hal standing in the living room, confused.

Sherlock put away his instrument and walked over just as he was starting to feel his heart pound. “We have to go get you some clothes and things, and John and I were talking about,” he glanced at the other man, “we were talking about school.”

Hal could feel his eyes go wide. He held his hands out, palms tilted down. It was a sign he had worked out with the boys, to them it meant Hal was willing to trade, too Hal it meant ‘I will give you anything.’

Sherlock, of course, did not know either meaning. He observed Hal’s posture, his hesitant expression, and his shaking hands.

“You want to go to school?”

With everything I am, Hal thought, and nodded his head so fast, Sherlock ended up stopping him.

“All right then.”

Hal felt the same warmth build in his chest, and for the first time, thought something good was happening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this is so slow. Things will pick up soon, promise.


	5. Vast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hal has a bit of a breakdown, but it all ends well.

The trip to get clothes was a disaster.

Sherlock held his hand as they went outside the flat, and everything went downhill from there.

London was so loud. They were surrounded by buildings, people, and cars on all sides, but Hal had never felt so exposed. The city was a great, vast thing and it scared him. Yes, vast from his Oxford dictionary, an adjective meaning of very great extent or quantity; immense.

He tried to repeat the words over and over in his mind, but the blaring, honking, noisiness of the city burrowed into his brain. He shoved his hands against his ears and pushed. He pushed and pushed until his head heart and his ears ached, but still he could not drown out the noise.

Sherlock picked him up, or he assumed it was Sherlock, his eyes were scrunched tight so little lights flickered in the darkness. He was wrapped up in a great wool coat and carried back up the stairs into Baker Street.

Hal wasn’t sure how long it took John and Sherlock to get him to drop his hands and to sooth his eyes open. When he did, he found himself on the couch wrapped up in John’s arms, with Sherlock pressed against his side. It was warm and comforting, and made the world just a little smaller.

As comfortable as he felt, Hal was beyond embarrassed. He could not believe what he had just done. With a sniffle, he pulled from John’s arms and ran upstairs. He grabbed an old chapter book, one he did not recognize, from the bookshelf and crawled under the bed. He knew he was being ridiculous; the boys had never acted like this. He was being a child, a big baby, but none of the names he thought to himself would get him out from under the bed.

He read four chapters in the book, that turned out to be called "The Hunger Games”. It was an interesting story and drew him in quickly. He forgot about his fear and his pounding heart as he lost himself in the story.

When he looked at the little clock on the dresser, at least an hour had passed. He walked down the stairs as carefully as he had at breakfast, he could only imagine how upset they were with him.

John was sitting in one of the chairs talking to…Mycroft. Hal hadn’t even heard the door open. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. 

“We found Mrs. Morstan,” Mycroft was saying.

“Did the results come back?” John asked.

“No, however, I did find more about why she did what she did. Mrs. Morstan is married, and was married the day you had your…dalliance. It appears her husband was overseas with her Majesty’s Army. She claimed that she knew your middle name from your blog, and used it and your last name to keep the child as little connected to her as possible. It appears she gave birth and gave Hamish up for adoption just two months before her husband returned, none the wiser. “ Mycroft gave his speech as if bored, but his brow was creased in disgust.

John clenched his fisted, “Why would she not just tell me, give Hal to me?”

“I imagine she did not expect much from a ‘one-night-stand’ and she wanted as little connection as possible. Having you know about Hal would rather undermine the whole business."

Hal stepped out of the stairway, drawn by the conversation. They were talking about him. It almost sounded like they were talking about his parents.

“Ah Hal, Sherlock informed me that you were in need of new clothes,” Mycroft remarked, focusing on him in an instant.

Hal shuffled forward, embarrassed now at being caught, and the reminder of the very short attempt at shopping.

Mycroft pointed to a pile of clothing boxes at his side. “Take a look.”

Hal had not noticed them before and now was curious. The first box revealed a very soft blue jumper, much nicer then the strange brown thing John had been wearing the day before. There was another jumper, this one in light green, then long sleeved t-shirts in black, red, and blue. Some had nonsense patterns of swirling lines while others had complicated chemistry equations hidden under pattern and design. There were two pair of jeans and a pair of khakis with big pockets. The last boxes were socks, pants, and a pair of flannel PJ’s: everything he would need for a London winter.

There was no trade for this, or proper way to say thank you, so Hal pulled himself into Mycroft’s lap, much to the surprise of the man, and gave him a tight hug.

“Its quite all right Hal, quite all right,” Mycroft murmured, hesitantly patting his back.

When Hal finally scrambled down, John was looking at him with a fond expression. “Here, try something on, yeah?”

Hal went into the loo and pulled on the khaki pants and the light blue jumper. It was beyond soft, and Hal found himself running his fingers along his cuff. Not-mother had never denied him clothes, it had been one of the few things she made sure he had every year, but he had never had such fine things.

John made tea after that and they all sat around the little table and munched on some scones from Mrs. Hudson, according to John. Hal nibbled on one, enjoying how soft it was and the little bits of sweetness from blueberries.

He could feel another panic attack coming on and could not understand why. Nothing was wrong; he wasn’t hungry, he was safe indoors, and none of the adults seemed mad at all. This was oddly petrifying. Which was probably why, when John and Mycroft left the table, he wrapped a scone in a napkin and shoved it into one of his pockets.

 

Sherlock came home moments later with a small, black container and a ridiculous grin. “I got something that might help, Hal.” Sherlock kneeled down and placed the container between them. He clicked the little latches on the side and flipped open the lid. Inside was a small version of the strange wooden instrument he had played before.

“It’s a child’s violin, but if I give it to you, you have to promise. You have to trade.” Sherlock looked at him, very serous.

Hal nodded, barely able to pull his eyes away from the violin.

“You have to promise to take very good care of it, and you have to practice. I’ll only teach you how to play it if you promise to practice.” Sherlock lifted it out of the case and handed it to him as Hal nodded again.

He took it carefully, running his fingers along the smooth neck and the strings.

“This is the bow,” Sherlock commented as he handed over a shorter version of the stick he had been using earlier.

Now Hal could see that the stick, or bow, had a number of very smooth wires running through it. Without really knowing what he was doing, he ran the bow along the strings. The violin let out a trebling screech.

It sounded terrible.

It was also the first noise he had made in two years.

Hal felt heat build behind his eyes, felt something wedge at the base of his throat, and felt the sharp burn of salt-water form at the corner of his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter is so short, but it honestly took me three days of glaring at it to get this much written.
> 
> Also, I have no idea why John would ready "The Hunger Games" but it was the first book that popped into my head and seemed oddly fitting.


	6. Therapy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hal goes to Therapy

Hal listened to the scratch-scratch of the pencil and wondered how mad John would be if he broke it.

Eve was still watching him, like she always did, scratching away at her yellow notepad; waiting for an answer she was never going to get.

He watched right back.

“Hal, let's try this again, shall we? Can you sign your name for me? It's just three letters,” Eve asked, repeating H.A.L. in sign language for him.

Hal stared at her, he did not move his hands.

Eve sighed, as she always did fifteen minutes into the session when Hal wouldn’t respond. Like she did every time, the woman tried to coax him into a few more words before handing over a spare pad of paper and a pencil.

Hal smiled at her, his sweet smile that John said was dangerous, and started to draw the music notes for “Ode to Joy.”

“Your Dad says you really enjoy the violin, that you practice twice a day,” Eve remarked as she looked over his shoulder.

Hal continued to write the notes, extending them into the more complicated version than what he could play.

It had been two weeks since he had come to Baker Street. It had been a week since John had sat him down and told him that he was his dad, his real dad, not some foster father. Hal still wasn’t sure what to make of it. He was happy, he guessed, since John was nice and came with Sherlock. Still, something lingered in his gut. Something sharp and churning, that made the daily sessions with his therapist an exercise in stubborn refusal.

Hal wasn’t sure what was wrong with him. He had never felt so… so angry. He had been so careful around Not-mother and the boys. He had never refused to do anything or broken anything. Yet everyday as he sat on his child’s chair and listened to Eve talk, he wanted to snap her pencil, throw her hideous mug, and stomp her pad into the floor. The force of the feeling made his hands shake, sometimes he had to sit on them for fear they would start a rampage without his permission.

“Hal, why won’t you try to sign, or write out your thoughts? Don’t you want to communicate?” Eve asked.

It wasn’t a question he had heard before. Eve usually just kept asking him to sign or write his thoughts. She never asked why he didn’t. He looked up then, eyes narrowed.

Sherlock knew what he wanted by the tilt of his head or a shift of his finger, and while John did not seem to see things the way Sherlock did, he seemed equally aware of Hal’s feelings. Except for small things, communication wasn’t a problem.

“Do you think they will hurt you, if you speak?” Eve asked.

Hal didn’t think so. Sherlock had caught him with food in his pockets at least five times and John had endured two weeks of Hal’s violin screeching. No one would let him clean unless it was his own room or mess, and he had slept in his wardrobe three nights in a row after his first, successful outing outside. Sherlock and John had brought him out late at night when the city was no less vast, but certainly quieter. Each night they walked the streets a little further, until Hal could go out early in the morning.

That much patience seemed to suggest they would not lose their tempers, but Hal had no wish to change their minds. Two years of silence was fine, it was all fine.

He glared at his paper, at the lines of notes. He scribbled across the bottom in Sherlock’s pointed scrawl and handed the pad to Eve. Then he stood and went to the door. He knew he had time left, but he wanted out. He needed out of the room, right now!

“Thank You, Hal,” Eve smiled at him, like he had done something great, and opened the door. He knew she had read his line, his stupid sentence. “I’ll talk when I have something important to say,” it read. He hadn’t written in his own hand, couldn’t bring himself to, but it had looked right in the over-confident spike of Sherlock’s words.

He went to John’s side, where he was waiting for him in the lobby. “Is everything all right?” he asked, placing a protective hand on Hal’s back.

Eve smiled, "Yes, I think we had a bit of a breakthrough today, but we shall see tomorrow.”

Hal wandered around the office, while John went in to have his usual five-minute chat with Eve. He imagined she was showing him what Hal had written.

John did not say anything when he came out, but he shot Hal a pleased grin before leading him down to the parking garage. The garage was dark and the heavy concrete muffled the sounds of London. Hal loved it.

Mycroft had lent one of his dark sedans with the heavily tinted windows, so John could drive him back and forth to therapy. Sherlock had driven him once, but after his chat with Eve after the session, only John took him now.

Hal hated that being out in London, except for the very early morning, left him shaking. He hated the weakness of it, how silly it was to be afraid of noise and open space, but hating it didn’t stop his heart from pounding and his breath from catching. John told him it was normal and he was doing well, Sherlock told him he would get used to it.

In the car, Hal forced himself to stare out the window and watch the buildings zoom by.

John cleared his throat, "You really shouldn’t copy people’s handwriting, you know.”

Hal looked over. John didn’t look mad; in fact, he was making his little half smile he usually made when Sherlock did something weird. Hal offered his own little half-smile. He enjoyed copying handwriting. The day before he had rewritten a medical article in John’s doctor script.

John just laughed, like he knew what he was thinking.

At home, John went to make lunch, and Hal practiced his scales. He still wasn’t used to holding the little violin, and the strings bit painfully into his fingers. Sherlock had shown him his own fingers, where years of playing had developed hard calluses. Apparently it took longer than a week to form them.

He worked through the simple version of Ode to Joy and then tried the more complicated version he had been writing earlier, but he kept screeching on the faster notes.

Frustrated, Hal put away his instrument and wandered into the kitchen. He started sweeping the floor without really thinking. The tile was starting to take on a new color.

John moved to stop him, like he always did, but Hal must have made a face, because he just shrugged. “Thank you, Hal. I bet you're used to a little less mess.”

They worked silently together; John sautéing something that smelled awesome, while Hal emptied an ungodly pile of dust-bunnies into the bin.

They were just sitting to eat, when Sherlock burst in. His face was flushed from the cold and he had a wide grin on his face. “John, you won’t believe it!”

“What, you mad-man?” John chuckled. He always made insults sound like pet names.

Sherlock walked over, ruffling Hal’s hair and pressing a kiss to John’s cheek. “The case I was working on. The killer had Dissociative Identity Disorder, the personalities had no idea the others existed, so when the man said he did not kill his brother he was telling the truth. There were absolutely no tells until I discovered a bit of mud on his trousers. Then the other personality emerged.”

Hal listened to Sherlock tell his tale, but more he watched John watching Sherlock. He could never remember another person look like that, like their whole world had been concentrated into a single being. He had looked up marriage and husband in another dictionary. Neither word seemed appropriate for the bond between the two men who had welcomed him into their home.

Sometimes Hal wondered what it would be like to feel the affection the men held for each other. Other times, he would see John or Sherlock look at him with warmth in their eyes and know that in the small world that was JohnandSherlock, they were carving out a space for him as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no knowledge of children or therapy, especially not abused children in therapy, so all of this is just personal interpretation. I just feel that as Hal becomes more aware of what was done to him, he is going to be a bit angry. 
> 
> The next couple of chapters will start jumping forward a bit.


	7. Silence Broken

Hal ran his bow along the strings of the violin, running through his newest Mozart. The concerto rolled easily off his fingers, time and practice having finally given calluses to the tips of his fingers.

He finished the piece and rolled easily to his scales and then a few simple pieces he had learned over the three months he had been with Sherlock and John.

When he finished, there was a soft clapping behind him. Hal turned to offer a smile to Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade.

The man was sitting on the couch, grinning. “You are certainly better than some of the stuff I’ve heard Sherlock produce."

Hal’s shoulders shook, his version of a laugh. He had heard a few of Sherlock’s ‘pieces’ when Mycroft had been over. It was so strange to listen to the man produce amazing music one moment and horrible screeches the next, but it did suit his personality.

“John says you practice all the time, I bet it's nice to hear your own sounds, huh,” Greg muttered, looking nervous.

Hal knew Greg wasn’t sure how to act around him. Sherlock had gotten a case in Cardiff he couldn’t refuse, and as it became obvious how dangerous it could be, John could not stand to stay behind. What resulted was a week of John fretting and Greg coming over every day so Hal could get used to him. Hal found he actually like Greg and he didn’t mind having him watch over him for a few days as long as they were at 221B.  
Mrs. Hudson came over whenever Greg had to leave, but Hal tended to avoid the older landlady. She was beyond nice, and Hal knew that she would never raise a hand to him, but being around women for any extended period made him uncomfortable. Sherlock had discovered this after firing his rather useless therapist. Hal liked the new guy, Dr. Will, who sat on the floor with him and they drew pictures, music notes, or chemistry equations depending on Hal’s mood.

Dr. Will didn’t treat him like a dim five year old, and had even handed over a child psychology book for him to read over. It was…nice.

After putting away his violin, Hal scrabbled up on the couch with Greg. The detective had kids of his own, two girls, but they lived with their mum. Hal thought that was sad, because Greg seemed like he would be a good dad, he had the look of it. Like John, all nice and cuddly with lined faces showing years of laughter and smiling instead of scowling like Not-mother.

“Do you want to watch something?” Greg asked, handing over the remote.

Hal took it and flicked through the channels, he stopped on a nature documentary on tigers, and glanced at Greg.

“Works for me, I used to love tigers as a kid,” Greg said, settling into the couch.

Hal watched the detective for a time. Usually, when he watched telly with John he would snuggle against his side. He knew Greg, had seen him around for three months and a lot over the last week. Stiff as a board, he leaned against his side.

Greg didn’t say anything, but he slipped his arm around Hal’s shoulders and gave him a brief squeeze.

Hal made his body relax, resting his head on Greg’s side as they watched the mother tiger take her cubs for their first swim.

He must have fallen asleep like that, because the next thing he knew Greg was pulling his duvet over him. “Good thing you're little, Hal. I’m too old to be carrying anyone up a flight of stairs,” Greg teased, ruffling his hair.

Hal snuggled deeper into his bed, content.

The next day, John and Sherlock were supposed to be coming back from Cardiff in the afternoon, but Greg had to go into the office to do paperwork and Mrs. Hudson was gone to an appointment. What resulted was Hal’s second ever trip to New Scotland Yard.

The trip there wasn’t bad. The panda car was kinda awesome, and Hal could now go out into London without feeling like his heart was going to rattle out his chest.

It was getting into Greg’s office that was a pain. They ran into Donovan and Anderson, both people Hal did not like at all: Donovan because she called Sherlock names and just seemed like a mean person; but his dislike for Anderson was mostly just because Sherlock didn’t like him.

At seeing him, Donovan tried to smile and talk to him. Hal ended up tucking himself behind Greg’s legs. Anderson seemed to be trying not to scowl, and Hal could practically hear the ‘Freak’ he wasn’t saying.

Greg was quick to pick up on the tension, though, and swept them quickly into his office. With the door closed and the blinds drawn, Hal could almost forget how many people were outside.

He had brought his new backpack, a small bag in red and black that had made him so happy when John had given it to him that for a moment he had thought of John as Dad. He tried not to, but sometimes the word slipped into his mind.

The bag held his sketchpad/notebook, the third ‘Hunger Games’ book, a pocket dictionary, and a pencil case filled with wonderful things. While school was still a work in progress, the bag was a sort of promise.

He pulled out his pad and started to work on a few maths problems Sherlock had given him. While John could always be trusted to ply him with food and cuddles, Sherlock had a habit of writing math and word problems in any of Hal’s books. He had once found a riddle written on the 142nd page of his dictionary, followed by a word problem a few pages later. In retaliation, Hal gave him each answer in a different person’s handwriting. Last week, Sherlock had looked at him wide eyed when he had handed over a riddle in Mycroft’s neat script. Hal had preened over the look for the rest of the day.

The time passed easily, Greg working on his seemingly endless paperwork, while Hal worked on his maths. Sherlock had given him a matrices problem that was just mean.

“Snack break, buddy?” Greg asked after a few hours.

Hal followed him into the break room for apple wedges and peanut butter. The peanut butter was a recent addition to his favorite snack, an addition that somehow made the apple better! He was munching happily on their way back to the office, which was probably why it took him a moment to notice John and Sherlock over by Greg’s office. They were giggling like schoolboys, heads close together as they talked about their most recent case. Hal only ever saw them like this after a particularly dangerous case.

“Looks like your parents are back, eh?” Greg chuckled.

Hal could only stare at the detective. Parents? John was his Dad, biologically, and Sherlock was…his Sherlock, but he had never thought of them like that. Parents, huh.

Hal decided then, that he would give both men a hug, something he tended to avoid except for rare trades. He had actually missed them over the last few days, something he didn’t even feel for Ethan after three months.

He was walking over to them, to do just that, when he spotted the man just entering the room. He was struggling against a police officer trying to cuff him. The man got the upper hand, by forcing his weight back into the officer, breaking his hold.

Hal thought it was silly, the man trying to escape in a room full of cops, until he realized the man was reaching for the slight bulge at the side of his leg.

Gun, strapped to leg, hidden by pants, the officer hadn’t noticed. His…parents were right in front of the man, not aware yet of the danger so close.

Sound welled, unbidden in his throat. At first he squeaked, then coughed, then choked. His vocal cords, so long unused, didn’t want to function, struggled. Still he yelled, hoarse and rough, “Dad, Gun!”


	8. Choice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hal makes a choice.

John responded to the word ‘gun’ like any trained soldier. He spun around, ducking his body to make a smaller target. When he spotted the man, he rushed forward before the gun could be brought into position. With a block, he forced the arm up. Ducking beneath the limb, John kicked out the man’s knee, knocking him to the ground.

The police took over after that, pinning the man to ground and removing the gun.

Hal watched the scene unfold with wide eyes; he had never seen John move in such a way. When John walked over to him, Hal couldn’t help his flinch, but John fell to his knees in front of him and pulled him into a tight hug.

“Thank you, Hal. Thank you,” he murmured.

Hal slowly wrapped his arms around John, nervous. “Sorry,” he croaked.

“Why? You saved my life,” John asked, pulling back to look at him.

Hal shook his head, burrowing into John’s jumper. He had no idea why he said that. He could feel his whole body shaking and his heart pounding, he was so nervous.

John, always so attuned to his panic attacks, hefted him up and carried him to Greg’s office. Sherlock followed, closing the door behind them.

“Hal, I need you to understand, that you will never get in trouble for speaking, do you understand?” John asked, placing him on one of the office chairs.

Hal nodded. He did understand that, he did, but it did not make him any less nervous.

Sherlock handed him a bottle of water, having somehow found one at the bottom of Greg’s desk.

Hal took a few good gulps in between remembering his breathing exercises. “Thank…Thank you,” he whispered, trying the words on his tongue. His voice sounded so small and scratchy, nothing like he sounded in his own mind. It was strange to hear the difference.

He could tell John and Sherlock were just holding back excitement. Besides getting him used to the ‘real’ world, most of his therapy had been geared towards communication, whether through voice, writing, or sign. All of which Hal had been avoiding. Now he had to decide; did he want to continue talking or shut down again? Hit the mute button?

John hefted Hal into his arms and said goodbye to Lestrade, saying he wanted to get Hal home. Sherlock, for once, followed.

The trip to Baker Street passed in silence. Sherlock stared out the window, while John held Hal close, but was clearly lost in his own thoughts.

Hal pounded up the two flights of stairs and into his room. He needed the sanctuary of it. A small corner by his bed had a neat set of toys he had been playing with. John had given him the toys a month ago, saying imagination was as important as his books. He sat by them now, moving one figure to the next as he acted out the story in his mind.

John came up, maybe thirty minutes later. He perched at the end of the toy battlefield, looking curious. “One day, you are going to have to tell me their story.”

John had said this before, but Hal could never express everything in gestures. Now he could, if he wanted to. Hal held up the Enterprise, a spaceship from an old show and Hal’s favorite toy. “They dropped out of warp and into a parallel universe.”

“Oh,” John grinned, looking excited. “Is that how they met the Doctor?” He held up the Blue police box that had been next to the 10th and 12th Doctor.

“He’s John Smith, the Doctor clone from the other universe, the Doctor got involved when the Daleks broke through the universe and kidnapped John Smith and the Enterprise. Only Spock got away,” Hal grinned, holding up the little blue-shirted figure of Spock. He had wanted to tell John about his imaginary battle, to prove that he loved the toys. He had never had any before, and the other boys had been too old for such things.

“What’s this then?” John asked, pointing at the cryo-tube Spock had been standing by.

“To get Captain Kirk and the crew back, Spock had to wake up his old enemy for help because the Federation is useless.” Hal lifted the lid of the tube to reveal the black haired figure within.

“Oh no, not him,” John grinned, “How could Spock trust him?”

Hal smiled and in his deepest voice said, “Wouldn’t you do anything for your family?” In the attempt to ‘enrich’ Hal’s imagination, John had sat him down to a weeklong marathon of his favorite movies and T.V. shows. Sherlock had been in such a sulk he had played screechy violin music in the middle of the night in retaliation.

John burst out laughing. “I see I have officially made a nerd out of you.”

Hal tilted his head, “Nerd?”

John chuckled and ruffled his hair, “Someone that can quote Star Trek lines and plays in parallel universes.” He sobered suddenly, “I’m glad you like them.”

“Course I do,” Hal murmured, walking over to curl against his side. “Thanks, Dad,” He murmured, certain that the thanks had little to do with the toys.

“You're always welcome, Hal,” John said against his brow, hugging him tightly.

****

 

The next day was his usual therapy session.

Hal had already decided that he would talk to John and Sherlock, but was still on the fence about talking to Dr. Will.

“Good Morning, Hal,” Dr. Will greeted, as he took his customary seat.

Hal watched him, eyes narrowed as he debated his response. Before, he would wave or offer a nod, but he knew John had called him about the gun incident. Finally, after what had to be five minutes, he responded, “Morning.”

Dr. Will smiled at him. “Would you like to continue our drawing from last time?”

Hal nodded and went to get his drawing pad from his cubby.

Dr. Will sprawled out on the carpet with him and started to draw what had to be the world’s ugliest dog.

Hal held back a chuckle and flicked to an empty page in his book. He had been trying to draw the inside of Baker Street, but now he sketched something new, working on strong lines and sharp angles.

Dr. Will looked over at the paper, curious. “What are you drawing?”

Hal bit his lip, sketched another line, and looked up. “It’s a gun, not sure what kind.”

Dr. Will didn’t look surprised, “Is that what the man in the police station had?”

Hal nodded.

“I wish my memory was that good, I can’t even remember my own dog,” he grinned, holding up his paper.

This time Hal did laugh, rolling over with it. “ S’not so bad, “ Hal lied.

“You were very brave, you know,” Dr. Will said.

Hal shrugged, “He was going to shoot them.” He scribbled on his paper, embarrassed.

“Them?” Dr. Will asked, clearly fishing.

Hal scowled, debating his choice of words. “My parents,” he whispered, barely audible.

Dr. Will must have heard him, though; the man gave him a reassuring smile before returned to his drawing, adding a silly smiley-face sun.

They drew for a while, mostly quiet. Dr. Will would ask him what he was drawing and he would answer. Hal never asked any of the questions.

When Dr. Will handed over the empty sheet music, Hal hummed a few lines of familiar songs and was somehow drawn into explaining the parts of a violin.

When the session was over, he left with a few new sheets of music and new book about the history of music. He was sensible enough to know the book was, in its own way, a trade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be the first day of school.


	9. School

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> School sorta sucks.

Six months after the ‘gun’ incident, Hal found himself in the halls of Union Grove Primary School. He was stuck somewhere between giddy and petrified.

John had brought him to school early so he could meet the teacher and get Hal settled. John was talking to Mrs. Phillips now. Sherlock had not been allowed to come after he had turned down three previous Primary schools.

Hal wandered around the classroom, drawn to the corner that housed a small library. The bookshelves were filled with books of varying sizes, but they all looked very small compared to the books at home. The room seemed filled with colours and shapes and letters. He wasn’t quite sure where to look.

“Hamish,” Mrs. Phillips called, giving a polite smile. She was a younger woman in her thirties with red hair. She seemed nice, and had none of the telltale signs of an addict – Sherlock had taught him.

He walked over to her, clutching the straps of his bag.

“This is your desk here, okay,” Mrs. Phillips pointed to the front desk on the far right by her own desk. Hal guessed that was to keep him under watch.

He took a seat at the small desk in the small chair. The nametag on the front had Hamish Watson-Holmes written in black marker. He ran his fingers over the edge, careful not to mess up the tape.

John kneeled in front of him. “Hal, I told your teacher and the principal to call me immediately if you need anything. I also told her not to call on you in class unless you raise your hand, so you don’t have to answer any questions if you don’t want to.”

Hal nodded, pleased. He had no intention of talking to his teacher until he felt comfortable enough.

“Give me a hug, yeah,” John asked, holding open his arms.

Hal jumped out of his chair and gave him a tight squeeze. “Dad,” he whispered.

“I know, I love you, too,” John ruffled his hair before standing up. He gave a wave to Mrs. Phillips before leaving.

Hal emptied his backpack in his desk, placing his notebooks and pencil case on one side so he would have room for his books, later.

“You can put your bag in a cubby, Hamish,” Mrs. Phillips instructed.

Hal put his bag on the hook indicated and flitted about nervously for the fifteen minutes it took for the rest of the class to come in.

It was a bit of chaos after that. The students talked noisily as they hunted for the desk with their name on it. There was more noise as everyone emptied their bags and Mrs. Phillips handed out schoolbooks.

Hal sat quietly through it all, even as his desk mate, Noah, introduced himself. Noah seemed to have gained his spot by the teacher’s desk through a hyper personality. He shoved his things into his desk without care for their placement, and spent the rest of the time wandering until the teacher told him to sit down.

John, Sherlock, and Greg had warned him that the first week of school was always a bit of madness as both teacher and students settled. They had not been joking.

After class was sorted and seated, roll was called and introductions were made. Mrs. Phillips explained that the first few days would be spent learning where everyone was educationally. She wrote a series of maths word problems on the board and then a few questions about how they had spent their summer.

While they did their work, a teacher’s aid took one student at a time into the hall to practice something called ‘sight words’,

Before the second student was called, Hal had finished his maths and was staring at the English work in utter boredom.

Beside him, Noah was still struggling on the second problem, which was a simple subtraction question.

Hal amused himself through five more students by writing the word problem answers into matrices. The rest of the time he spent writing about his summer in Noah’s handwriting. Trying to duplicate Noah’s messy scrawl was actually harder then Sherlock’s, who tended to change his handwriting just to throw Hal off.

Finally, he was called out to the hall. The teacher’s aid explained that sight words were a collection of words that every second year needed to know on sight. She would hold up a card and he would only have a moment to recognize it.

The first card she held said, ‘before’ he nodded, easily able to recognize it.

“You have to say it,” the woman sighed, clearly tired of sitting through 15 children worth of this.

Hal shook his head; he wasn’t going to say it out loud. He didn’t even know this woman’s name.

The aid shrugged and ran through the rest of the cards, words like; after, eight, to, sight, sound, ate, and run. It was an endless variety of easy words. Hal recognized each one from the first reading book he had picked up. He nodded to each one, but the aid always paused to get him to say it.

When Hal returned to his desk, simmering in anger, Mrs. Phillips was standing by it, holding his paper.

“Hamish, what is this?” she asked, pointed to the scrawling mess that was his summer report. It did look strange under the rows of neatly written numbers from above. He had written the numbers in Mycroft’s hand, the best handwriting he knew.

Hal shrugged, he had been bored.

“Did Noah write this for you?”

Hal shook his head just as Noah did the same.

“You shouldn’t lie,” she said, more to Hal than Noah.

Hal shrugged, starting to get mad. The sight word thing had been annoying, but this was ridiculous.

“Hamish, I know your father said you’ve had a hard time, but you know lying is wrong, as is stealing.”

Hal scowled and shook his head. He had lied and stolen plenty of times. There had been days with Not-mother that if he didn’t nick food from the bin or the boy’s bags then he didn’t eat. Lying kept him from getting beaten, even when he couldn’t talk. It was amazing what you could get across with the tilt of a head or shifting of shoulders. Of course, he never lied to John or Sherlock, even if he sometimes pocketed a few of Mrs. Hudson’s biscuits.

“Hamish, move your clip and sit down, please rewrite this,” Mrs. Phillips said sternly.

Hal resisted the urge to stomp as he moved to the back of the classroom, and changed his clip from green to yellow. His clip was attached to a giant construction paper traffic light, used as a warning system. 

In retaliation, he rewrote the assignment in Sherlock’s sharp script before switching to John’s doctor-cursive halfway through. When he handed the paper to Mrs. Phillips, she looked at it in confusion.

The rest of the day could have gone smoothly if it wasn’t for recess.

He ate lunch with Noah, who seemed to enjoy having someone he could just talk at, endlessly. John had packed him a helping of Mrs. Hudson’s spaghetti and a fruit salad for snack, his favourite.

History had actually been interesting, covering things about the monarchy he had never read. Science had been easy, but it covered physical science, which was different from the biology and chemistry he normally looked at.

At the end of the day, just before English, they had recess. Hal was supposed to sit out five minutes because his clip was on yellow, but Mrs. Phillips gave him a pass for the first day of school.

He played on the swings, enjoying the wind in his hair and the way gravity seemed to tug at his chest with each downward swing. He was just starting to get going, when the swing stopped with a forceful jerk. He slammed back into a body and there was a sharp cry of pain.

He turned to find a fourth year girl, with the chains gripped in one hand. “This is my swing, get off,” the girl snarled.

Hal looked to his left, where two swings sat empty, and shook his head. He was not about to move when there was plenty of room.

The girl scowled at him and shook the chain. “Are you stupid? I said get off.”

Hal set his jaw and glared.

The girl pushed him.

He tumbled head over foot into the rocks below, and when he tried to rise, the still moving swing smacked him in the nose. His eyes watered at the pain in his face and skull.

The girl just sneered as she took his seat, “Should have moved, stupid.”

Hal saw red. With a silent scream he tackled her, attacking with fist and feet and teeth.

When the teachers finally pulled him off, the girl had a bloody nose and an array of bruises.

He quieted after they separated them, but Mrs. Phillips still led him to the Principal’s office with an iron grip on his shoulder.

“I am calling your father,” the Principal, told him, looking so disappointed it was physically upsetting.

Hal sat in the small, plastic chair and seethed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did a bit of research on the British School system, but I've done work in American schools and I would rather write what I know than add half researched wiki stuff. "Sight" words are a real thing that they teachers usually cover in first and second grade to help with reading, at least in Georgia, anyways.
> 
> Also, I apologize to my third grade teacher, Mrs. Phillips, you were awesome, I swear.


	10. Resolve

Hal paced the length of Dr. Will’s office, too high-strung to take a seat. 

Dr. Will watched him for a while, letting him cool down. “Hal, may I ask you a question?”

Hal stopped mid stride, turning to look at the therapist. He gave a single nod. 

Dr. Will tilted his head, like he was trying to think of a really good question. “Why do you write like different people? I’ve seen your own handwriting, its very neat.” 

Hal took a seat; that had not been the question he expected. He scrunched his face in thought, debating the answer. “Sherlock’s writing is all sharp angles and swooping lines, as confidant and pointed as he is. John’s handwriting is all soft lines and small, neat shapes, as sturdy and caring as himself. Mycroft’s writing is very neat and precise, almost… demanding. Greg’s handwriting is messy and sort of frazzled, he works too hard.” 

Dr. Will blinked, Hal had surprised him. “ What does yours say?”  
Hal shrugged, looking anywhere but at the doctor. “Its blank; straight and neat and empty. I don’t like it.”

“Maybe if you used it a bit more it would build some character,” Dr. Will suggested. 

Hal shrugged. “You’re not going to ask me what happened?” 

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Another shifting of shoulders, “Not really. It was just… I was already mad because of those ridiculous sight words, I already knew them, and everything was so easy. Then Mrs. Phillips thought I got Noah to write my assignment, like he wasn’t still struggling with his maths. Then that girl, that mean little…” Hal snarled, face distorted with rage, “I’m not stupid!”

“No, you most certainly are not, but Hal sometimes children are mean. They say things that wound without realizing it,” Dr. Will suggested. 

“She used to call me stupid,” Hal grumbled. 

“She?” he prompted. 

“Not-mother, she used to call me stupid, because I stopped talking. She wouldn’t let me go to school. I wanted to, so bad,” Hal sniffled. 

Dr. Will’s brow creased for a moment. Hal knew he was confused, he had never mentioned Not-mother. 

“Do you mean your foster mother?” Dr. Will asked. 

Hal nodded, “I gave her my voice so she wouldn’t hit me, then she called me stupid. Ethan used to say school was useless and I was better off without it, but he had amazing books. Biology books with genetics and cells and wonderful things. Peter hated school, but he had a maths book that used letters as numbers and graphs that could make shapes with the right equations. “

“I think I may have done you a disservice, Hal.”

“What do you mean?” Hal curled into the chair. 

“Your Dad asked my opinion on your schooling and I suggested you start at year two even though you never went through the other grades, I think you would love the higher years, maybe year five. The student’s would be bigger, though, and they may be mean because you are smaller than them. I’m afraid this is the trouble with most children is smart as you, finding a place that fits.” Dr. Will rarely gave long speeches, but he was always straight with Hal. 

“Can I…may I play my violin for a bit,” Hal changed the subject, not sure what his opinion of school was. He had spent so much time trying to work his way to going that would seem such a failure if he was home schooled. 

Dr. will smiled and nodded. 

Sherlock had brought his violin with him this session, apparently reading Hal’s mood as easily as he usually did. 

Hal pulled open the case and fell into the comfort of playing with ease. He started with his scales, to make sure the pitch was correct. When he had it tuned just right, he worked through Mozart, Beethoven, and Bach. He never stayed on a piece long, shifting from one to another until the speed of his playing was frantic. When he finally lowered his bow he was panting, sweat beading his brow. 

Dr. Will gave an appreciative clap. “That was very good, do you feel better?”

Hal nodded, he did feel better. 

“I’ll talk to your parents about school, we’ll figure out a solution,” Dr. Will stood and gave Hal’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. 

John and Sherlock spent a long time in the office with Dr. Will while Hal flipped through his new book in the waiting room. He was still waiting for them to do something, to be angry, but when Sherlock had arrived at the school the day before, he had taken one look at the scene and rushed Hal off to Baker Street. John had given him a half-hearted scolding about hitting people, but had also called the girl a bully. Even Mrs. Hudson had just handed him a biscuit and fussed over the red mark across his face. 

It was so confusing. 

When his parent’s left the office, they all went back to Baker Street, but school was still not discussed. In fact, school was not brought up for three more days, Hal was so nervous he was certain they were never going to let him go back. 

Instead, Greg and Detective Donovan came over to visit. Greg brought his daughter, Caroline, and Donovan brought her daughter, Mia. They were both ten and were in the same class at East Lake Primary School. 

Caroline was tall and dark headed, and she had her father’s smile. 

Mia had her mother’s dark, curly hair, but lacked the angry scowl. 

Hal had zero wish to speak with the girls, but Caroline called his Doctor Who toys cool, and Mia said she loved the second Star Trek Movie.

John, conducting the trio like a general, somehow getting them all in the living room to watch ‘The Hobbit.’

Sherlock, who didn’t much like children other than Hal, managed to involve them in an epic popcorn experiment, that resulted in the destruction of at least one pan. 

Caroline and Mia seemed to thrive in the madness of 221B, in a way Hal never would have suspected. 

By the end of the day, he had somehow made…friends. 

It was after the girls had left that John explained what the visit had all been about. 

“Hal, I know you were bored and angry at school,” John started, that night as he tucked Hal in for bed. 

“I didn’t mean to be,” Hal sighed. 

John hugged him, “Oh, I know love. I know how smart you are. Putting you in year two was like trying to get Sherlock to solve a missing pet case. I’m sorry. Here’s the deal. I don’t want to just put you in the grade that you’re best suited, and I know homeschooling would be unfair. So I think you will stay out of school for another week and get to know Caroline and Mia better. I also arranged for you to spend an hour everyday with your new teacher so you can trust him, before your start in his class. Does that sound okay?”

“You want me to…to start in the same class as Caroline and Mia? With Mr. Boulke?” Hal was shocked. 

“You will have a week of getting to know everyone to decide, and I’ll be with you for every meeting with your new teacher. He has a second degree in child psychology, like Dr. Will, and you’ll already know people with the girls there.” John looked nervous, but hopeful. 

Hal pushed forward and wrapped him in a tight hug. “I think its perfect, Dad, perfect.”


	11. Meetings

Mr. Boulke was…interesting.

The next week, Hal went to East Lake Primary School for his first visit with his new teacher. Sherlock had insisted on going and John had gotten roped into doing a shift at work.

“Did you skip any grades?” Hal asked Sherlock as they made their way down the empty hallways.

“No, I was sent to an elite boarding school,” Sherlock remarked, looking down at him.

“Did you want to send me to boarding school?” Hal asked, repressing a shiver at the thought of living in some strange place most of the year.

Sherlock scoffed, “Absolutely not, I would not wish boarding school on my worst enemy.”

“Oh,” Hal muttered, and gave Sherlock’s hand a squeeze because it seemed like the right thing to do.

Sherlock offered him a smile in return.

Mr. Boulke’s class was at the very end of the year five hall. It was much less colourful then the year two classrooms, but the entrance window had a labeled picture of the human brain drawn on it, which, for some reason, had a pipe drawn running through the center of it. There was a large bookshelf in the corner filled with large chapter books; that made Hal grin.

The desks were arranged in an open semi-circle so the center of the classroom was left open. Hal only counted fifteen desks – a small class then.

Mr. Boulke was at the board writing the next day’s morning work. The maths appeared to be fractions and the Literacy was a series of complex sentences with errors that needed correcting. The man, himself, was in his late fifties with an obvious bald spot at the back of his greying head.

He turned to face them with a grin, “Well hi, just give me a minute to finish this please.”

When he turned back around, Sherlock was standing in his space, looking at him with narrowed eyes.

“American, retired to England after your children finished college; two children, both girls. You’re still married to their mother, also a teacher, art…no, drama. You used to teach older children, psychology judging by your depiction of Phineas Gage,” Sherlock spoke in his usual fast flow of information, pointing to the brain drawing at the end of his stream.

Hal watched with bated breath, waiting for the man to either slap or yell at Sherlock.

Instead, Mr. Boulke gave a hearty laugh and clasped his hand in greeting. “You must be Mr. Holmes. I’ve read some of your deduction articles. I taught high school psychology in America, I thought it might be time for a change of scenery. My wife is a born Londoner, so it seemed a good choice. “

Hal was stunned. He walked over to Sherlock and tugged on his hand, giving him a curious look.

Sherlock, as perceptive as ever, knew what he was asking. Instead of explaining, however, he turned to the teacher, “Hal is curious about Phineas Gage.”

“Oh,” Mr. Boulke grinned, looking pleased. He moved over to the drawing and pointed to the pipe running through the center. “See this? Phineas Gage was a miner with a great deal of luck. A blast shot a lead pipe through his head, but it barely hurt him. It did, however, sever the part of the brain that connects the right and left lobes. His personality changed overnight. I use this as an example of our lesson on anatomy. Though, truthfully, the parts of the brain aren’t really part of the curriculum.” He gave a cheeky wink.

Hal couldn’t help himself; he had to cover his mouth to stifle a giggle. Mr. Boulke struck him as a little eccentric, nothing like Sherlock, but enough to make the stiffness in his shoulders relax.

“Do you want to try tackling the morning work? I’d like to see where you are.” Mr. Boulke asked, handing him a whiteboard marker.

 

Hal nodded and went to try his luck. He had to climb on a chair to reach the top questions. The maths were actually hard. He hadn’t covered fractions in Peter’s books, but Sherlock had been teaching them to him over the last month. It took him a bit to get the bottom numbers the same, but he figured it out and ploughed through the rest. The sentences were easy. He had read enough novels and done enough of Ethan’s Literacy work to know were to capitalize words and add commas.

The two history questions, however, completely stumped him. They were covering world history and Hal knew nothing about whatever the Fertile Crescent was.

He stared at Mr. Boulke, biting his lip. He hoped they would still let him into the class.

The man whistled, impressed. “I could see the fractions were giving you a bit of trouble, but you worked them out. I wish half my students had such patience. Don’t worry about the history; we just covered that lesson last week. Your dad said Math and Science were your favourites.”

Hal nodded, pleased he understood.

Sherlock cleared his throat. “He has a habit of forging different handwriting. He is very good at it, but it’s a harmless hobby.”

“Hmm,” Mr. Boulke scratched his chin. “I can’t say I’ve ever taught someone prone to writing in different styles, but I don’t see it being a problem.”

Hal wandered around the classroom a bit, picking up books and looking at the odd collection of trinkets by the teacher’s desk. Mr. Boulke would occasionally point something out and talk about it, but mostly he let Hal trace out his surroundings.

They only stayed thirty minutes before Mr. Boulke had to go to a teacher’s meeting, but already Hal was feeling more relaxed about the new class, it was only the children that really worried him.

Sherlock took him to a little park by St. Bart’s after leaving the school. He pointed out a bench as they walked to meet Caroline and Mia. “If it wasn’t for that bench I may have never met John.”

Hal looked up in surprise, “Fate?”

Sherlock laughed, “I doubt it, simply a combination of events that worked in my favour.”

“What happened?” Hal asked; he had never heard this story.

“An old friend of John’s recognized him as he walked by, he called out and they got a cup of coffee. John mentioned he couldn’t afford London and his friend suggested a flat share. It so happens, that I had mentioned my need of a flat mate earlier that morning,” as Sherlock spoke, his eyes took on that glazed looked he usually got as he entered his mind palace.

“The friend introduced you?” Hal asked.

Sherlock nodded, “I deduced John the moment I saw him and decided he wasn’t entirely boring.”

“What did he say?” Hal had seen Sherlock deduce quite a few people; reactions were rarely as mild as Mr. Boulke’s.

“Later, when I explained the process, he called it extraordinary.” Sherlock had a silly smile on his face, the smile he only reserved for John. “You know,” he looked down, “he saved my life the first day we met.”

“So,” Hal laughed, “Fate.”

Sherlock gave him a bump with his hip, “Don’t be cheeky, it took six years for us to admit to anything like attraction.”

Hal blinked. He thought Sherlock and John had been married since…forever. “Why?”

“Things happened, it’s a story I would rather save for later years,” Sherlock looked sad then, and Hal decided not to push.

As they turned the corner, Hal spotted Caroline and Mia running after each other. Caroline seemed to be running full tilt with a ball. Greg and Donovan were standing off to the side, talking quietly.

“Hey Hal, Sherlock,” Greg greeted with a wave. He always seemed pleased to see Hal, though Hal wasn’t sure why. He guessed it had something to do with Greg only getting to see his girls on the rare weekends when he didn’t have a case.

“Deb was suppose to be here too, but she ended up staying with her mom. Dance recital tomorrow,” Greg explained. Deb was Greg’s younger daughter, the same age as Hal. Sherlock had once explained that Caroline was a tomboy and had been so disappointed to be presented with a baby sister that she was more then pleased to take Hal under her wing.

“You want to play ball?” Caroline asked, appearing at Hal’s shoulder.

He jumped back in surprised, but nodded.

Caroline carefully explained the rules, which seemed to only consist of ‘steal the ball from the other person and keep it as long as possible’.

Hal was smaller then both girls and had never played ball in his life. This resulted in a great many face plants into the grass, but neither girl was mean about it and usually one of them would help him up.

When the game got boring, Mia decided they would go exploring and promptly went about climbing a tree, just far enough from the parents to be out of eyesight.

Hal and Caroline followed after her, the old oak more than sturdy enough to support them.

“Look, a bird’s nest!” Mia exclaimed, perched on an upper branch.

Hal climbed above her so he could get a look. The nest had three small eggs in it, with little speckles on the shell.

“Neat,” Caroline grinned, reaching out to touch them.

“No, they’ll break,” Hal, cautioned.

“Oh,” Caroline looked over at him, “You do talk.”

“Sometimes,” Hal shrugged.

“Its nice, little kids talk too much, and about stupid things,” Mia added.

“Why did you agree to help then?” Hal asked. Sherlock had never explained that one.

Mia shrugged, "My mom asked, plus she promised to take me to the cinema next week.”

Well, that made sense.

“Really! What movie?” Caroline asked, completely forgetting about the eggs.

“Avatar 3,” Mia grinned, “On the IMAX!”

“Ahh, I forgot that was coming out, think she would let me come?” Caroline asked.

“I don’t know, let's ask.” Mia scrabbled down the tree, Caroline close behind.

Hal took a moment to follow, careful to place his feet so he didn’t come tumbling down. He had seen the first Avatar movie, but had no idea there was a second one, let alone a third. John had implemented a traditional movie night after the great Doctor Who marathon.

Sherlock had hated Avatar, and complained about the world design and the obvious story theft until John had to force him into the kitchen for an experiment. A bowl of eyeballs exploded in the microwave as a result.

Hal was pretty sure Sherlock hated all cinema.

He ran to catch up with the girls, making it in time for Mia to ask her mom about bringing Caroline.

“Sherlock,” Hal called. He almost wanted to be invited as well, but it seemed rude to infringe on Mia’s trade for being nice to him.

“I imagine John could take all three of them,” Sherlock suggested.

Greg shook his head, exasperated, “You have got to stop volunteering that poor man for things.”

“He hardly minds,” Sherlock shrugged, unrepentant.

“I’ll text him to make sure,” Donovan intervened. “There's no telling what will come up next week.”

Lestrade chuckled, “Isn’t that the truth.”

Hal listened in surprise. Mia, whose plans had just been changed, didn’t even look upset. Somehow the whole group was now scheduled to see a movie together.

On the way home, Sherlock gave him a ridiculous eye roll. “I’m going to have to put up with the second movie now, aren’t I.”

Hal beamed, “Probably. You could blow up some more eye balls.”

“I’m thinking pig stomach,” Sherlock gave him a wink.

Hal laughed all the way up the stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so some reviewers who have always been nice about responding to my work, kind of yelled at me for deciding to end this story last chapter. They were, of course, right, so I decided to flesh out a few more chapters to end things properly. This story will still only have one or two more chapters so Hal can get settled in school, but I do apologize for being impatient. I hate to start a new story when one isn't finished and I have about three story ideas I really want to write, which is making me terribly impatient to finish this off.


	12. Friends and Movies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hal and the girls go to the movies.

Chapter Twelve: Friends and Movies

School was…interesting. 

The children in fifth year were bigger and in some ways meaner, but Caroline must have really wanted a younger brother, because she defended Hal like a lioness protects its cub. 

While Mia had gotten roped into helping him with bribery, she enjoyed picking fights and Hal was convenient excuse. She also claimed he was the least annoying little kid she knew. 

Mr. Boulke didn’t mind that he used a different handwriting, and never called on Hal during class. Though he made sure to always ask Hal a series of yes or no questions to check that he understood the material. Fractions were amazingly frustrating. 

Hal liked his new teacher. He had spent the last week writing in Mr. Boulke’s messy squiggle, and the teacher seemed to think this was hilarious. 

Things were good, happy even, but that didn’t make him any less worried about the trip to the cinema. 

John made sure that they went right after school on a Wednesday, hoping that the off time would make the theater less busy. 

The popularity of the movie ensured that the theater wasn’t empty, but the people were older. Hal was pleased to note that they were the only group there with children. 

John grumbled about prices as he stood in line for popcorn and small drinks, even if he was using Sherlock’s card. 

Hal tugged on his hand, so he could offer John a smile when he looked down. 

John grinned back, “Don’t mind me, I’m just an old man.” He offered a cheeky wink. 

Hal giggled, shaking his head in negative. John was older, but wasn’t _old_. 

“I don’t think anyone is as old as my Dad,” Caroline piped up. 

“I don’t know, I meet Mr. Holmes’ brother once,” Mia grinned. 

“Oy,” John laughed, handing over the drinks. 

Hal covered his mouth to stifle a laugh, because Mia might be right about Mycroft. 

John herded them into the dark theater with the skill of a proper Army Captain. They sat in the middle, even though the girls wanted to sit at the very back. John gave the back seats a glare and stuck with the middle. 

Hal looked around, but didn’t feel the rush of panic he normally did when forced in a room with a bunch of people that weren’t his classmates. (Mr. Boulke always let him stay in the classroom for assemblies.) The dark helped, even in the huge room, the theater felt small. Hal sat between John and Caroline; the popcorn perched in his lap. 

As the previews started, he munched on the buttery-salty goodness of the popcorn and settled down for an epic movie. 

When they exited the movie, it was just starting to get dark. 

Caroline and Mia were shaking with glee and rage, a combination of emotions Hal only understood because he had watched the movie with them. 

“Can you believe that ending, how could they end the series like that?” Mia shook her fist like she was about to hunt down James Cameron and demand answers. 

“I cried when Toruk died, it was terrible,” Caroline injected. 

Hal nodded his agreement, he had liked the dragon-thing. 

“Come on, my little movie critics, let’s get you girls home,” John shuffled them into a cab.

“I will be astonished if they sleep tonight,” John commented, after dropping the girls off. 

“It was a good movie.” Hal curled against John’s side, he always like listening to the pump of his heart and feel the rise and fall of his chest. It was…comforting. 

John tugged him closer with an arm around his shoulder. “I’m glad you liked it. Was everything okay?”

“It’s fine, I don’t think I want to go on a Saturday though.” 

John chuckled, “Even I don’t want to go on a Saturday, it’s amazing how many people they can shove into one of those rooms.”

Hal giggled, but kept his head pressed to John’s side until the cab stopped. Hal offered Mrs. Hudson a hug and a kiss when they moved up the stairs of 221B; the Landlady was growing on him. 

Sherlock was curled up on the couch with a book about Apiology, looking completely uninterested in their entrance, but Hal caught him glancing over, reading the clues of their evening like only he could. 

“It was good, you should have come,” John teased, dropping a kiss on Sherlock’s brow and ruffling his already messy hair. 

Sherlock scoffed, “I would rather spend my evening with more intellectual pursuits.”

“Homework?” John asked Hal, ignoring Sherlock. 

“I finished it at school, but Mr. Boulke says the science fair is coming up.” Hal placed his backpack at the front door so he’d be able to find it in the morning. Sherlock had a habit of moving things around in the middle of the night. 

“Science fair?” Sherlock perked up, shifting on the couch. “I’m sure the fair is filled with the usual banal experiments, we shall have to think of something unique.”

“No toxic mold, Sherlock,” John called from the kitchen. “Hal, any lunch preferences?”

“I have to do most of the work, y’know,” Hal laughed, perching next to Sherlock. “Apple?” he suggested to John.

“I don’t know if I’ve ever seen someone go through so many apples,” John joked. 

“We could do an experiment with apples,” Sherlock suggested. 

“Like what?” Hal asked. He knew people did projects on stopping the browning in apples, but that seemed a little tame for Sherlock. 

“Hmm, I’m not sure, perhaps we could see if its possible to inject an apple with poison enough to kill, without effecting the taste of the apple.” 

Hal gave him a doubtful look, “Err, how would you tell if the taste of the apple was affected?” 

Sherlock gave a manic grin. 

“No, Sherlock,” John grumbled, coming in from the kitchen. 

“John, its in the name of science,” Sherlock protested. 

“Absolutely not,” John shook his head, but his expression was one of fond exasperation. “Now, off to bed you, we’ll figure something out this weekend,” John patted, Hal’s back. 

“Guard the apples,” Hal said, giving John and Sherlock a good night hug. 

“Don’t worry, we’ll try to avoid a Snow White scenario,” John teased. 

Hal went upstairs to the sounds of John explaining the fairy tale to Sherlock. He curled into his bed, feeling content. He had only been in school for a few weeks, but Hal thought tomorrow might be a good time to talk to Mr. Boulke. He would start with a few words, maybe just say ‘good morning’, but it would be something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oaky, so this was a fluff chapter, but I've written something like 50,000 words in the last, month and in the last week my interest in writing is just gone. I have no idea where I want to go with The Vision right now. I'm trying to force write myself through it, but my last three attempts at writing the next chapter have been rambling crap. 
> 
> Anyhow, this is the last chapter of this story, darn it. It ends on a happy note, Hal is slowly settling into School, and I gave a reason fro why two older girls would keep an eye on a younger kid. I know some people were skeptical about that. Which, I can totally understand, its hard for older kids to be protective of younger kids if they are not related, but I think it could happen with the right incentives.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, your opinions are much appreciated.


End file.
